A short interview
The questions every sitter eventually asks — answered honestly.
Why the dark?
Because it edits for me. Take most of the light away and whatever remains has to matter — a jawline, a knuckle, the one honest look. I came up printing in a darkroom; I never stopped trusting shadows more than highlights.
What does a sitting actually feel like?
Slower than people expect, and less like being watched. One lamp, a chair, conversation. The first twenty minutes belong to the pose you brought with you; the pictures I keep come after it runs out.
Do you ever shoot daylight?
For editorial briefs, sometimes — but it comes back underexposed and quiet. If your project needs a white cyclorama and wide smiles, I know wonderful colleagues and I will happily introduce you.
What happens to the pictures afterwards?
An edited proof set, never a dump of everything. Then paper — the frames worth keeping become baryta prints, because a portrait is not finished while it only lives on a screen.
The rules that survived
Nine years of sittings have worn the method down to four rules. Everything else is negotiable; these are not.
Wait past the pose
Everyone arrives with a face they prepared. The portrait is on the other side of it, and the only way there is patience.
One lamp is enough
Every light I add is a decision the sitter has to survive. One source, moved carefully, says more than a rig ever has.
Edit without mercy
You will never receive three hundred frames. You will receive the few that deserve to exist, finished properly.
Print what matters
A picture is not done while it only lives on a screen. Baryta paper is the final draft — and the only archive I trust.
The studio wall
Working prints and rejected frames — the wall changes every month, the darkness stays.
